


Having

by wearitcounts (Sher_locked_up)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha!Sherlock, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Anal Sex, Bottom!Sherlock, First Time, M/M, Masturbation, Omega!John, Relationship Issues, Sex Toys, Switching, top!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-16
Updated: 2013-08-16
Packaged: 2017-12-23 16:07:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/928472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sher_locked_up/pseuds/wearitcounts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is sick of the assumptions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Having

Sherlock isn’t thinking too much about the logic behind it, and that really should have been his first clue. He isn’t trying to parse out the reasons and motivations at play; in fact he’s barely aware he’s made a decision at all. All he’s able to pull to the front of his mind is that he must get upstairs, must get inside, must throw his coat in whatever direction looks most promising, and must find John.

It’s not that he hasn’t thought properly about it before. He’s turned the thing over in his rational mind more times than he’d really like to admit, and he’d be ready if pressed for an argument. It’s just that he never expected to be quite so invested in the outcome.

Because Sherlock doesn’t think he’ll be able to reconcile a negative result.

Because _something_ smells _incredible_.

Sherlock is beginning to suspect that something is John.

 

*

 

The sheets were surely softer than this yesterday.

John can feel them press against his bare skin like so much gravel and he chokes back a small groan. He’d forgotten just how bad it could be. He hasn’t done it in over two decades; but suddenly the drug companies have all recanted their promises on complication-free heat suppression, and now here he writhes, following orders like the good soldier he is, curling in on himself with the discomfort of his recommended once-per-annum cautionary cycle.

Maybe he should have mentioned it to Sherlock.

But it’s Sherlock, John had reasoned. He doesn’t feel things _that way_.

It’s not as if Sherlock doesn’t know John’s an omega; he’s an alpha, and asexual or not, he can tell these things. Even with the heat suppressants, an alpha like Sherlock _knows_.

A high whine catches in John’s throat and he bucks a little despite himself. He’d purchased some things to help him through his heat, some toys and other aids, but something in his gut roils at the notion of using them. He knows he craves a thing he cannot have, but he _wants_.

 

*

 

Sherlock is almost to the kitchen when his incredible brain catches up with him.

John is in heat.

He recoils, brings himself around to the far side of the worktop, presses his hipbones up against it. The top of his body is straining toward the stairs to John’s bedroom, the bottom caught beneath the heavy wooden blockade. His legs scrabble a bit, but his arms lock and his hands hold fast to either side of the counter.

 _Fuck_ , Sherlock thinks. _John is in heat_.

He supposes he always thought himself prepared for this eventuality, divorced from feelings as he prides himself to be. It’s just a base instinct, a trick of the body, and he knows what a good smell is and what a bad smell is, and how to control his reactions to either.

Or how to leave, if necessary.

The fatal flaw in the plan, of course, the fly in the ointment, as it were, is that Sherlock hasn’t factored into his equation the notion that perhaps he won’t want to control it, that he might prefer not to leave; that _John in heat_  is different than _omega in heat_  because it’s John, and Sherlock _wants_  John.

Sherlock wants John even on the normal days.

Sherlock wants John sweat-coated and giddy, chest heaving with exertion, high-pitched giggles punctuating the fast breaths that push forcefully from his mouth and nose after a good rooftop chase or a gunfight; Sherlock wants John pink and and fussed and exhausted, straight out of bed, rubbing his eyes and scowling at the dearth of hot tea and overabundance of experiments littering the kitchen; Sherlock wants John in just about every flavour he comes in, wants to lick him and smell him and catalogue the differences, wants to dip John in things and wipe them away again, smear them with his fingertips and his mouth and the palms of his hands.

Sherlock wants these things when John isn’t in heat.

Only now, today, John _is_.

****

*

 

John is naked and leaking and sweating and writhing. Half of the largest sex toy is inside of him, and he is biting down hard on his pillow, anticipating the toy’s lifelike knot at the base. He’s grunting and letting out little whimpers with every centimetre. The sheets beneath him are soaked. The fingers of his left hand are dripping with himself.

His mind feels steady though, steadier than he remembers it felt at eighteen, the last time he succumbed to heat, when he felt as though his body might actually tear into so many misshapen, bloodied hunks of human flesh if he didn’t find the relief and fulfillment it mercilessly demanded. He knows who he is, where he is, what he’s doing. He’s two-thirds of the way toward taking care of this himself, at least this round, and while it isn’t what he wants, he knows he can control it. He can sustain it.

It's that exact moment, the moment he’s sure everything is going to be fine, that it’s all fine, that’s when he smells it.

It’s cedar wood and cardamom and Egyptian musk. It’s smoky and spicy and sweet and fucking delicious.

It’s alpha; it’s _Sherlock_.

****

*

****

Resisting the urge to destroy John’s bedroom door with his bare hands requires much of the fight Sherlock has left in him. He pulls the door open slowly, affecting an air of great detachment. Some part of him knows his scent gives him away; but then again, so does John’s.

The sight before him nearly knocks the breath out of his chest.

John is on the bed, he has no clothes on and he’s soaking wet, just sopping, everywhere he’s wet, and he’s full of something dark and long and almost all the way inside. He’s facing away from the door and it’s a beautiful view, the dimples above his arse flexing rhythmically as his hand, arm twisted back at an unnatural angle, pushes slowly on the toy that breaches him.

Sherlock clears his throat. He has one hand in his pocket and he’s digging his nails into his thigh as hard as he can, using the pain to ground himself, to focus. “John,” he breathes.

John groans.

“Sherlock,” he pants. “I think—I _know—_ even you can see, surely— _oh—_ this is a bit— _ah—_ not good?” His words are punctuated by gasps and grunts, and he doesn’t turn, but that hand, that soft, gentle little hand, keeps working the toy inside him, keeps pushing and pulling at its base.

Sherlock is so hard in his trousers he’s beginning to feel lightheaded from the relocation of such a large portion of his blood, and he can’t quite formulate a response. John’s smell, the peaches-in-summer, salt-sprinkled watermelon smell of him is too distracting. Sherlock’s erection forms a thick and vulgar curve down the inside of his leg.

John finally pauses, heaves, turns his whole body, flops over onto his opposite side to face Sherlock. The effort he makes is astounding.

“Are you going to just stand there and watch me?” He demands, stern through his breathlessness.

Sherlock grins and runs the hand not currently molesting his own thigh over his arousal. He shivers. “No,” he drawls. He attempts to relax his frame even more, to lean against the doorway as though he isn’t leaking precome all over the front of his pants. “I’m not going to watch you.”

He slowly unbuttons his trousers, unzips, reaches in through the gap in his black Y-fronts and pulls himself out. He’s red-purple and retracted and just about fits into his own long-fingered fist. “I think I’ll have you.”

****

*

****

John is sick of the assumptions.

Omegas lie back and take it; omegas are a thing to be had; omegas are dripping and wanton and can’t help themselves. Omegas smell that good for a reason. Omegas want it, are asking for it. An omega _belongs_  to someone.

Even with that someone there, leering, leaning against the doorframe of his bedroom, cock in hand, lips wet and eyes half-closed with desire, even with Sherlock, he can’t abide it.

He’s Captain John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, and he’s killed people. He’s Doctor John Watson, and he’s _saved_  people.

Through the hormone-infused haze of his _want_ , he’s furious.

It’s the fury that drives him, that sends him off the bed, the massive toy still clenched inside and between his buttocks; it’s the fury that allows him to grab Sherlock by the biceps and heave him face-first onto the bed. It’s the fury that clears his mind enough to realise exactly what it is he’s doing.

He’s going to fuck Sherlock.

And Sherlock is going to _beg_  for it.

****

*

****

“This isn’t the way I have been led to believe this should go.” Sherlock can’t help but feel a bit pleased at how calm his voice sounds, even as it’s muffled by the duvet that’s half stuffed inside his mouth.

One of John’s hands is at the back of Sherlock’s head, fingers locked around the hair that curls at his crown, pushing his face into John’s bedding. He wants to move, to turn over, to take over, but every time he twitches, every time he makes even the slightest movement, John pulls so hard on his hair his head jerks up, and between the pain and the scent that’s all over the air his body goes weak and he collapses back down again.

The other of John’s hands is doing things he can’t see but aren’t difficult to deduce; the slick, slapping noise, the pause every few beats and the stifled moans; John’s coating himself with himself.

John chokes out a laugh. “How does it feel to get it wrong?”

Sherlock considers this.

As he does, his entire body goes slack with the realisation, “Marvellous.”

****

*

****

It’s awfully convenient sometimes, being an omega.

John can tell by Sherlock’s scent that the hunt is over, that the prey has been caught and that it’s a sheep in wolf’s clothing. He knows that as long as he keeps that wide, knotted toy inside him, and as long as he’s upright behind Sherlock, he only has to twist and pull on it slightly to allow thick, sweet lubrication to drip out from inside him and coat his fingers. He knows that as long as he keeps himself full, he won’t feel empty.

He knows that he’s perfectly capable of filling someone else as much as he is of being filled.

John pushes Sherlock’s face down once more for good measure and exchanges his left hand for his right, still teasing and pulling at Sherlock’s hair. He runs an open palm down Sherlock’s spine, lets his nails graze the sensitive skin. He reaches behind himself to gather more moisture before rubbing at Sherlock where he plans to fuck him, dipping the tip of his middle finger in and out, in and then out again in a slow, burning tease.

Then he pushes two fingers into Sherlock and Sherlock positively _howls_.

He bucks and rubs himself against the sheets, fucks himself back on John’s hand, makes low, guttural sounds that only encourage John to slick his hand again and add another finger. He’s hot and open and he smells as good as he sounds and John can’t help it, it’s too much, John’s already covered in himself and he just lines up and pushes in, feels Sherlock clench and groan around him.

“John,” Sherlock whispers, “ _please_.”

He’s vaguely aware, as he takes hold of Sherlock, and Sherlock’s hand wraps around his, that he’s going to come soon, and that so will Sherlock.

He hovers at the precipice, pleasure licking hot, heady stripes across his consciousness, and the realisation hits him that this isn’t just sex.

That any other time, they’d get their breath back, laugh, maybe make tea; maybe pretend it never happened.

That this time, they’ll have to keep going.

Then John lets out a long, low yell and curls over Sherlock’s back. He feels Sherlock tense and clench and and then they’re both coming, they’re both coming and shaking and utterly lost.

****

*

 

They lie in bed shoulder to shoulder, Sherlock’s longer legs dangling slightly off the bottom edge, hovering in an in-between space, the limits of which seem inestimable. There’s wet underneath them but it doesn’t bother Sherlock and John seems too troubled to notice.

Sherlock wishes he’d thought to bring cigarettes.

“How long?” Sherlock breaks the silence, his voice shattered and shagged-out and deep enough to bury a body.

He feels John shrug. “I don’t know. Soon, I expect.”

“And this is because of the—”

“Yes.” John puts a hand over his face and sighs. Sherlock waits, counting down the seconds until John continues. He expects at least twenty but it only takes fourteen. “It’s only once a year. I would have mentioned. I just didn’t think—” John cuts himself off there, laughs.

“Yes,” Sherlock says simply.

“Did you ever—should we have—” John falters. “I mean, should I have—” His inability to speak stabs Sherlock somewhere behind his ribcage and he sucks in hard.

“No.” Sherlock turns on his side and puts hand under his cheek, props himself up on one elbow and stares down at John’s face. “ _No_ , John.”

John lets out a breath that seems to pull his entire body up, as though cinder blocks were lifted from John’s chest and belly. “When we—when it happens again.”

Sherlock smiles. “Yes.”

“We don’t have to— _I_ don’t have to. You can, if you like. Have me. I want you to.” John stares straight up at the ceiling as he says this, his shoulders squared, every inch and ounce the soldier, even as he lies naked and supine on his bed.

Sherlock puts his arms and legs over John’s body, nuzzles his face into John’s neck, breathes deep and huffs out a sigh. “Yes, John,” he says. “Yes, I’d like that very much.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Having](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2672822) by [consulting_smartass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/consulting_smartass/pseuds/consulting_smartass)




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